


Realisation

by Potrix



Series: Moments in Time [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (at least according to Illya), (but there's already a sequel), 1960s, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dramatic Napoleon, Emotions, Falling In Love, Feelings, Friendship, Hurt Napoleon, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Canon, Protective Illya, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Down!” Illya yells from across the warehouse, and Napoleon falls to his knees without question or hesitation.</p><p>
  <span class="small">(Technically a prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5628823">Confessions</a>, but can be read as a standalone fic.)</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realisation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InnerCinema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerCinema/gifts).



> For [InnerCinema](http://archiveofourown.org/users/innercinema). It's the least I could do after basically bullying her into watching TMFU. She also gave me a super sweet heacanon, which I, naturally, turned kind of sad. I regret nothing.

“Down!” Illya yells from across the warehouse, and Napoleon falls to his knees without question or hesitation, taking out one of the gunmen as he goes with a well-placed shot to the neck. 

A bullet whizzes over Napoleon’s head a moment later, the perfect height for a painful gut wound had it not been for Illya’s warning. Napoleon turns into the shooter’s direction, but the man is already clutching at a knife embedded firmly in his throat, gun long forgotten by his feet. 

With half their men out of commission, the fire from the smugglers ceases enough for Napoleon to leave his hiding spot, and dash over to the stack of crates Illya’s sought cover behind. There’s a nasty looking, sluggishly bleeding gash running along Illya’s hairline, but the way Illya’s fingers move deftly through the mess of metal and wires that used to be their communicator is enough to quell the worst of Napoleon’s fears.

He watches Illya blink, annoyed, against the blood trickling steadily down into his eyes, then reaches out and wipes at it with the sleeve of his--very expensive, irreplaceable, bespoke--suit. 

Illya mumbles a distracted, “Thank you,” and obligingly tilts up his chin so Napoleon can inspect the bruise on his jaw. A bit of prodding confirms that it’s superficial, nothing cracked or broken. 

“Any luck with that?” Napoleon asks, nodding at the device. 

“No,” Illya admits grudgingly, looking distinctly unimpressed with the situation as a whole. Napoleon quietly agrees. “Get me electroshock pistol guard was using. And his shoelaces.”

It would sound like a strange assortment of items if Napoleon hadn’t seen Illya rig up an impressively effective makeshift bomb with weirder things--a bottle of bathroom cleaner, baking soda, a handful of nails, a rag, and matches, to be precise--before. “On it,” he confirms, and sprints back out into the warehouse proper, his own gun cocked. 

Retrieving the requested items is easy enough, but in the time it takes Napoleon to backtrack their steps, the smugglers regroup and call for backup. 

“Lovely,” Napoleon sighs as he rolls behind an empty shipping container, and winces at the too loud _cling cling cling_ of bullets hitting the metal on the other side.

He is effectively cut off from Illya, and while he doesn’t doubt that his partner can handle himself, getting separated is never a favourable outcome. Besides, they are on a bit of a tight schedule here; the stolen documents need to get to Waverly before the ship hits international waters, which would complicate their entire mission immensely. 

Napoleon chances a quick glance out from behind the container, manages to catch Illya’s eye, and raises an eyebrow. Illya purses his lips, considering, then motions for Napoleon to move. Taking a deep breath, Napoleon starts running blindly, most of the men too high up on the rafters for him to see, never mind hit. 

Shots ring out, followed by startled screams when something blows up, and the rafters begin to tilt dangerously. Napoleon laughs, full of adrenalin and the thrill of the fight, expertly sidesteps the first body hitting the ground, and rejoins Illya behind the crates once more, grinning giddily.

“When did you plant those explosives?” he asks, handing over the pistol and laces. “Nicely done, by the way.” 

Illya accepts the proffered items with a pleased twitch of his lips--not quite a smile, but close enough. “You would know if you were not incapable of paying attention. You are--”

“A terrible spy, yes, thank you, I know,” Napoleon finishes sweetly, not bothered in the least by the insult he knows is, in actuality, a sign of Illya’s ever growing fondness for him. Well. Illya’s slowly developing acceptance of Napoleon, probably, but they will get there eventually. 

Muttering under his breath, most likely something terribly insulting, Illya goes back to fiddling with the communicator, while Napoleon keeps an eye out for any surviving smugglers. Napoleon has absolutely no idea what Illya’s doing--not that he’d ever admit to that anywhere but in the privacy of his own mind--but whatever he does works, and soon enough they’re on the move again, having successfully relayed their location to the extraction team. 

The shot comes seemingly out of nowhere. They’re almost at the fence, a mere couple of feet away from the relative safety of the forest, when Napoleon is knocked forward into Illya’s back with the force of the bullet entering his shoulder. 

For a short, breathless moment there is no pain, only shocked surprise. Then Napoleon’s legs give out, his whole body convulsing and shaking, his muscles tensing up so much not even the agonised cry lodged in his throat manages to rip free. Poisoned bullet, Napoleon registers vaguely, and fast acting as well. 

“Hold on, Cowboy,” Illya instructs sharply, and it’s only then that Napoleon notices that he’s still standing mostly upright, slumped against Illya with one of Illya’s arms wound tightly around his waist, propping him up. 

It’s a herculean effort to curl his fingers into Illya’s jacket, Napoleon’s grip so unsteady he nearly falls when Illya lets go of him. Illya turns them both to the side to get a better angle, with Napoleon stumbling along uncoordinatedly, his feet heavy and dragging. 

“Stay still,” Illya says, and Napoleon doesn’t so much as flinch when Illya brings up both arms, effectively bracketing Napoleon’s head in between them as he takes aim, breathes out, and shoots. 

A body falls, then a second, and a third. Illya lowers his gun, still tense, ready to move back into action if necessary. Napoleon turns his face into Illya’s neck, dizzy with a sudden wave of nausea, and screws his eyes shut, feeling his blood pulse behind his lids, pain shooting along his nerves with every beat of his frantically racing heart. 

Napoleon groans miserably when he’s jostled around, weakly paws at Illya’s chest until Illya catches his hand, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze before placing it on his shoulder. Napoleon grips it as tightly as he can, which is not very. He peels open one eye, puzzled for a moment at the sight of his own legs before his sluggish mind can put the pieces together; Illya is carrying him, bridal style. 

“Well, this is undignified,” he slurs, or tries to. What comes out of his mouth instead is mostly incomprehensible, which does nothing to discourage Illya from answering, apparently.

“Shut up,” he grunts, and shifts Napoleon’s weight, huffing out a laugh when that makes Napoleon--stomach rolling uncomfortably--garble curses at him. Tisking, he adds, “Typical American. Always so dramatic.” 

Napoleon loses some time after that, because when he’s--quite rudely, excuse you--shaken awake again, he’s lying on the ground, and everything hurts. His body is still frustratingly slow to react, which doesn’t stop Napoleon from striking out at the stranger bent over him, catching the man in the jaw.

The blow lacks force, though, and soon enough, Napoleon’s arms are pinned by another man, while the first begins to cut open Napoleon’s shirt with absolutely no regard for fine tailoring. The heathen. Napoleon struggles, but the poison is doing its job marvelously, rendering him jittery and shaky. 

Then, the man brutalising Napoleon’s clothes is yanked back with an angrily hissed, “Idiots,” and the second one wisely chooses to release Napoleon as well. 

“You are not wearing identification,” a seething Illya barks, shoving the two men away from Napoleon none too gently. One of them is rubbing at his sternum, and Napoleon winces in sympathy because he’s been on the receiving end of Illya’s lecturing poking before. More than once. It’s never pleasant. “You put your hands on injured agent without identification, what did you expect to happen? Idiots. Leave.”

“Agent Solo is injured-” one of the men begins, at the same time as the other, obviously dumber one, snaps, “You are not a trained field medic, Agent Kuryakin!”

“Leave!” Illya growls, dangerously low. 

The medics hesitate, unsure, and Illya bares his teeth. They nearly fall over each other in their haste to get away. 

Grumbling irately, Illya grabs the abandoned surgical bag, and kneels down at Napoleon’s side. “Is not so bad, this,” he muses, lips curling up into a teasing smirk. “No inane chatter. Is peaceful. I like it.” 

Napoleon scowls, slightly offended, but nevertheless obediently opens his mouth so Illya can feed him two little pills, followed by a couple sips of water. 

“Muscle relaxant,” Illya explains as he pulls out tweezers, then slips on a pair of rubber gloves. “No painkillers, not mixed with unknown poison.” He frowns, chewing the inside of his cheek, then smoothes a hand over Napoleon’s sweaty forehead, real regret in his voice when he speaks again. “I have to dig out bullet. It will hurt.”

Napoleon gives his best approximation of a shrug. “‘S fine,” he whispers croakily, “Trust you.” 

And he truly does, Napoleon realises, implicitly and unquestioningly. If nothing else, this disaster of a mission has proved this, at least. Which is odd, not only in their chosen profession, but especially for Napoleon as a person. He has been burned one time too many already, has grown suspicious of people’s intentions over the years, and trust doesn’t usually happen to him without strong emotion, not without lo--

 _Oh_. Oh _no_.

Deciding that this is the absolutely worst possible moment imaginable for a life-altering, world-shattering epiphany, Napoleon figures that passing out is his best option, and does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com/).


End file.
